Two Way Street
by writeaddict
Summary: John Watson has had enough. Something has to give and it won't be him. Sherlock Holmes needs somebody to take him into hand.
1. The Hardest Part of Breaking is Leaving

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, if I did there'd be more than just the suggestion that John and Sherlock are a couple.

Chapter 1-The Hardest Part of Breaking is Leaving Pieces Behind You

Sherlock Holmes was already broken by the time John Watson met him. He would know, after all, he had been broken too. The difference was that he had put himself back together. Pieced together haphazardly the shards that were, the shards that had resulted from a war and a fragmented family, and come out stronger for it. He had filed the sharp edges that had once cut everything they touched inside, that had him eternally bleeding internally and located those broken pieces. And in that he had found himself, he had come out if not better then stronger from it.

That was how he knew that Sherlock Holmes was still broken. That he was waiting for someone to come around and prove that he was still human. John Watson decided right then that he would be that person. He watched the man he had come to love be continually insulted and bombarded by the very people he was helping, and could understand why Sherlock had turned to drugs- if your friends/colleagues treated you that way, the people closest to you, then you didn't need enemies. And Sherlock had enough enemies, dangerous ones, to be worrying about protecting himself from those he was supposed to be close to.

He watched the man he loved die. And then he watched him come back, just like nothing had ever happened, like he expected everything to carry on like it once was, like magic. It was then John decided that, as much as he loved Sherlock, he needed to be taken into hand. Certain things would just not be allowed to continue. That included the drugs that Sherlock thought he didn't notice, the lack of food and sleep, the chasing after dangerous criminals without proper back up, and hiding or refusing to treat the injuries he got. It started with a conversation.

"Sherlock." He was ignored.

"Sherlock." The man in question still didn't say anything; he was still pouting that John had thrown out the tongues in the refrigerator.

"Did you know that I love you?" John asked. That earned him a look, he smiled inside, mission accomplished: he now had Sherlock's full attention, even if he pretended otherwise.

"Yeah, you probably did know. You probably deduced it before I did, it's another thing I love about you."

Sherlock uncurled a little on the couch from the tight ball he had been in, his back was still facing him but John knew he was listening carefully.

"I love you, and it's because I love you that some things will have to change." He watched Sherlock stiffen, saw the tension in his back through that gorgeous navy blue dressing gown. He knew Sherlock was waiting for the other shoe to drop, had been since he moved in.

"I cannot watch you die again, Sherlock, nor am I going to watch you slowly destroy yourself. If things do not change, I will leave." Because leaving would be the kinder of the options. John wasn't about to stay and watch them both keep breaking. And he knew what he meant to Sherlock: more than any other person ever had. So he was going to make a gamble, it would be all or nothing. He'd walk away from tonight with everything he had ever wanted or nothing at all. But either way, he would know he had tried his best.

I hope you guys liked the first chapter. Reviews encourage me to write faster. :)


	2. Good Intent

Disclaimer: Sherlock- I don't own it.

Chapter 2- Good Intent

It had been two weeks since they had started their little…arrangement. It was already established that Sherlock clearly didn't know what was best for him so it was up to John to take care of things.

The truly surprising thing was how well Sherlock had taken it. John had expected fire and brimstone, he expected a fight; instead he got silence and a flash of disappointment in those pretty eyes.

"_So you're going to leave? Then go."_

_John shook his head, knelt in front of Sherlock, the brunet had turned on the couch. "I don't think you understand me. I love you, Sherlock. I don't want to leave; if I wanted to go I would have done so by now. You need to give me a reason to stay. I can't watch you die again, not in any way. Not drugs, not you hiding your injuries, and not you going off on your own and being more reckless than usual."_

"_So you want me to give up everything. You don't want me to be myself because it's too much for you; everyone seems to want to change me. It's either the deductions, the danger, or the drugs– sometimes in different combinations. And tell me, John, what do I get in return?"_

"_Everything, Sherlock. Everything."_

He started with a sandwich. Baby steps. He wasn't trying to force Sherlock to change, not really; he fell in love with _this_ Sherlock, not someone lackluster. What he was trying to do was keep Sherlock alive and the both of them relatively sane and together. He had tried it Sherlock's way, and that had resulted in a fake death and trips back to his psychologist, now it was time to try things his way. He had a feeling that would work much better for the two of them.

The first signs of dissension happened at an interesting set of murders. Sherlock hadn't eaten anything in two days or slept and it showed, he was paler than usual and was getting frustrated and snappish. John had managed to get some water and tea into him but he was being quite uncooperative about eating anything, he didn't even bother trying to get him to sleep–it hadn't been that long and Sherlock was used to it, there was no way his flatmate was going to sleep when the case had just started.

He cornered Sherlock during a lull in the case, "Sherlock, you need to eat something. Look, I have a few things–some snacks, a couple of sandwiches, water. You don't have to eat all of it but it's either all the snacks or the sandwich."

Sherlock brushed by him, headed toward the lab, "Not right now, John. Can't you see there's something interesting happening? Digestion slows down my brain, you know that."

John felt his eyebrow twitch. He knew this was going to happen. Sherlock always had to _push_, it was in his nature. He dredged up his patience and tried to keep his voice even.

"Sherlock," he coaxed, "It's just a small sandwich, and if you don't want the sandwich have the celery and the carrots; you like them. Please, just eat something."

Sherlock was looking mutinous when Lestrade came towards them with Donovan on his heels, "Sherlock, they found something on the tox report."

"Sherlock," he said. Grey eyes flitted towards him and he held up the paper bag.

"Not now, John!" He turned and headed towards the lab, coat swishing behind him.

John clenched his teeth before turning towards Lestrade, "Give that to him when he gets hungry, will you?"

He started towards the exit when Lestrade yelled after him, "Where are you going?"

John didn't even turn around. "I'm leaving."

(LINE BREAK)

_Where are you? –SH_

_The case is solved- it was the anthropologist. –SH_

_I ate the food you left. I'm ravenous, Chinese? –SH_

_Why aren't you responding to my text messages? –SH_

_Are you upset with me John? –SH_

John had thus far managed to ignore all of Sherlock's texts until he read the last. After he left Scotland Yard he had headed to 221B and packed a weeks worth of clothes in a duffel bag. Sherlock thought that he could push and that John would fold like he had every time before or be manipulated till he did what Sherlock wanted. Well, John was pushing back. He had been very clear when he outlined his terms to Sherlock, just as he had been very clear when he said he would leave if they weren't met. Sherlock had agreed to them, had promised he would try so if he thought he could make John forget or give in by throwing a tantrum then he was wrong.

_Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. –JW _

_I had to solve the case, John. You know it's the most important thing. –SH_

_And you know what I told you would happen if you didn't eat. –JW_

He heard a knock at his hotel door and got up to open it, he had ordered some food from room service. He opened the door and found Sherlock. John crossed his arms and scowled.

Sherlock blinked innocently at him, "Aren't you going to let me in, John?"

John smiled blandly, "I'm not particularly feeling like it at the moment, no."

"John," Sherlock gave him a chastising look and he moved aside to let the taller man in.

"How did you find me?"

Sherlock held up his phone, "I traced your cell."

He shook his head, "Of course. I don't even know why I bothered to ask. Why are you here, Sherlock?"

"I brought you dinner."

"I already ordered some."

Sherlock dropped the bag on the bedside table and made himself comfortable on the bed, "Do you want me to apologize?"

"I don't want to hear your apologies, you rarely ever mean them. I want you to be healthy; I want you to eat."

Sherlock pointed a long, pale digit towards the fast food bag beside him.

John frowned at him, "On a regular basis."

"John," the tone was just short of a whine, "The case was interesting. Surely you didn't expect me to waste time on something trivial that would only slow me down? I can eat after the case. It was only four days. You're overreacting."

"Four days is long enough. And what happens when the case takes over a week to solve?"

"Then I'll deal with it. It's not like I'm stopping you from eating."

John sighed, "Just go, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at him, "I thought you wanted me, that you accepted me for who I was. I told you not to expect much from me. I'm not a hero or any other illusions you seem to have in your head of me."

John's mind flicked back to The Conversation.

"_Don't be ridiculous, John. You can't give me everything. What about sex? Do you even want me that way? You're straight."_

"_Yes, I do. I want you, I want everything."_

John huffed, "Oh, believe me, I'm aware of your flaws. They don't make me want you any less; I put up with it this long, didn't I? It's not a question of me wanting you, I told you what I needed from you in order to stay and you agreed and then completely ignored me when I tried to get you to eat something. Why should I stay through that when I've only asked you for a few things? I'm not asking you for a miracle, Sherlock."

"You're asking for the most important things! It's not as simple as just stopping! Why can't you _see_?"

"And you're getting everything in return, I'll give you everything you need! Do you realize how high maintenance you are, Sherlock? I'll give you everything you need if you just take more care! It's you that's not seeing."

"You don't really mean that. If you did you wouldn't have just told me to go. You don't want me. You're a liar. You just wanted a reason to leave while making it seem like you didn't want to and now you've found one."

John growled and found himself next to Sherlock between one breath and the next. He grabbed the dark curls, absently noticing their silkiness, before yanking Sherlock's head back and kissing him. He kissed him with hard pressure, nipping at Sherlock's thin bottom lip, one hand sliding down to brush the brunet's pulse. John kissed him until he started to whimper before abruptly stopping and letting him go.

John straightened up and crossed his arms. "Don't ever doubt that I want you but I'll have you on my terms or not at all. This isn't a game, Sherlock. Decide."

A/N: And there's chapter 2. If you like it and would like to see more, leave a review.


	3. Slums of Loneliness

Disclaimer: I just borrow the characters, unfortunately. I don't own it.

Chapter 3- Slums of Loneliness

Sherlock decided that John was insidious. John had come into his life when he hadn't needed anybody and made him want him. Sherlock had been just fine on his own. He had. And then John had come along with his psychosomatic limp and his patience and his 'it's all fine' attitude and made Sherlock want him. It simply wasn't fair.

John took care of everything even when he was being his most difficult. Sherlock had broken him in just right, taught him how to anticipate his needs and now that was coming back to bite him. Somewhere along the line want had turned into need and then he had to die. That made the need worse. John seemed to suffer from the belief that he was the only one affected by Sherlock's death. He wasn't.

And then John went and surprised him like he always seemed to be doing just when Sherlock thought he figured him out. He had said he would leave. And that was unacceptable. He felt like screaming and breaking things. How dare John get it into his head to leave after he made Sherlock need him. The blonde had laid down terms and made it clear that he had no choice but to accept, and sheer surprise had Sherlock agreeing. Then a marvelous case had come along, had taken away the boredom. And John was insisting he waste time to eat when there was so much other thrilling stuff to do. He thought John understood. The Work, the game, would always come first.

Later John had made him regret not listening. He left. John wasn't supposed to do that, he was supposed to help Sherlock and stay by his side. Sherlock experienced the closest thing to panic he felt since Moriarty had that bomb strapped to John when he entered his flatmate's room and saw clothes gone and a missing duffle. He texted him, half wanting a response and half wanting to make sure he didn't turn off his phone while he tracked it. He hated going to Mycroft but he would have if it meant finding John. Luckily he didn't have to.

John was upset with him. He didn't understand why. He had always been like this and John had never shown a problem before and then suddenly he was making all these demands. Trying to get him to do stuff when he didn't want to, like eating and sleeping. He didn't think John would actually leave when it turned out Sherlock didn't listen to him but he had. He had thought John would give up, see that this was how Sherlock functioned and then things would go back to how they should be. He was surprised again.

He got to the hotel and asked for John's room number. There were times he was really grateful for John's blog though he would never admit it to the man. John wasn't a bad writer and he must be doing something right if all those people followed his blog when they didn't follow Sherlock's– something else that wouldn't be admitted on pain of death. The hotel clerk being a fan made the information very easy to get. He loved making deductions, the questions, the thrill of getting it right, the game but simply asking and receiving an answer had its charms too.

John was disappointed in him. John who accepted everything about him, even the qualities that other people hated, and thought them brilliant. He disliked disappointing John; it made him defensive and frustrated. They had argued and he brought up the major hole in all of John's arguments. John was straight. He didn't want him, not _everything_, and why should he? Nobody else did. He was straight so how did he propose to give Sherlock everything? He couldn't and thus was leading Sherlock into a trap so he could leave him…just like everyone else. Even the people that stayed only did so because they needed him– Mycroft didn't count because he was family, he was obliged, and sometimes it was _him_ scaring off the people that lasted long enough.

So he had pointed out the flaw in John's 'everything'. John had shut him up. Sherlock had said that he didn't want him, and John proved that he did. The soldier had…assaulted his mouth. Sherlock was pretty sure kisses weren't supposed to be _that_. And it had been terrifying and thrilling. Almost as good as solving a case. That hard press of lips had hurt but felt surprisingly good. Anger draining. And then John had bit him. He had actually bit him and Sherlock was embarrassed at the sound he let out. He was also partially relieved that John had pulled back. Though he wasn't so happy with the words that came after. Why did he have to choose? As if he could choose anything but John.

He wasn't like John. He didn't like letting go. He couldn't so it was unfathomable that John could when John loved him. He wasn't nearly as selfless. He never had liked sharing when he was younger and it was a trait that he hadn't grown out of– he hadn't needed to. John was his. Sherlock wouldn't allow him to be anyone else's. John was made for him, he was nearly perfect before he had decided that he was suddenly going to rebel and stand up to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like it but he was even more unwilling to lose John so he did things his way. As if he could choose anything but John.

The next time John handed him a sandwich during a case, he ate the bloody thing.

(LINE BREAK)

Sherlock had been a good boy, so to speak. He generally ate what John put in front of him– the plus side to eating more was that John cooked instead of ordering take-out all the time like they used to, John was a very good cook– and even tried to sleep. He was unwilling to push John in the areas that would make him leave since he already proved that he would. Sure, Sherlock would find him each time but John wasn't dumb, Sherlock wouldn't be able to use the same method twice. It was also easier to have John want to stay in the first place rather than having to drag him back each time or keep following him. And he would keep following him because Sherlock wasn't letting him go.

The problem was that Sherlock was bound to mess up at some point, in matters of emotion he generally did and quite often. Thus, he needed insurance.

As he wasn't a female he couldn't use a baby to make John stay. But…but he could use sex. Why hadn't he thought about it before? People stayed in relationships, or had them in the first place, so they could get sex. If they had sex, John would be less likely to leave. He was ridiculously loyal, why else had he stayed with that Sarah bint for so long? Because he wanted sex! John had said it himself. The solution was brilliant in it's simplicity.

Sherlock exited his room and went to the living room. He found John on the couch avidly watching the TV.

"You want me," he stated.

John looked up, took one look at his face, sighed, and turned off the TV. "Where are you going with this, Sherlock?"

"You want me."

John scooched over on the couch and patted the place beside him. Sherlock sat down and John nudged the plate of biscuits he had been snacking on in his direction. He frowned – he didn't want a damn cookie! When it appeared John wouldn't say anything until he took one, he grudgingly selected a biscuit and nibbled on it.

"Yes, Sherlock, I want you. We've already established that. What's the problem?"

"Why haven't we had sex?"

"Bit sudden, don't you think?"

"We haven't done anything since the kiss in the hotel that night."

John blinked, eyebrow drawing together, "I hadn't gotten the impression that you wanted to."

"I do."

"Then why haven't you done anything, Sherlock? When you want something you usually take it, consequences be damned. You haven't done anything since I kissed you."

Sherlock frowned, "I didn't know I was supposed to. Is this one of those emotional things?"

John smiled, "Come here."

Sherlock moved closer till their shoulders touched and held himself stiffly. John's hand smoothed over his shoulder to the nape of his neck and slid into his hair, kneading a bit. And, oh, that was nice. He moved with it when John turned his head and then their lips were touching. That was almost nicer. John's lips moved against his and Sherlock imitated the motion, humming against his mouth. John nibbled on his lower lip and wet heat slid against it. He blinked when John smiled against his mouth and pulled back.

He raised an eyebrow, "Why did you stop?"

John shrugged a little, "You didn't open your mouth."

"Should I have?"

John stared at him, he liked deducing things about people but Sherlock had to admit that it wasn't nearly as fun when John turned that gaze on him, as if he could see inside.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"Yes. What has that got to do with anything?" he asked impatiently.

John chuckled, "Usually when someone licks your lips they want you to open your mouth."

Sherlock pulled back, breaking the contact John's hand had on the back of his neck, and ran a hand through his hair. "Why? I liked what you were doing."

"Then trying something new couldn't hurt, right? If you don't like it then we can go back to what we were doing before."

Sherlock moved closer, resting a hand on John's bicep– the man was always so warm. "Fine, you may resume."

The second time John kissed him, he was still laughing against Sherlock's mouth.

A/N: And there's chapter three, folks. This quick chapter is a result of all the reviews I got, they made me very happy. So please don't forget to review.


	4. Counting Down at the Green Light

Disclaimer: It's not mine.

Chapter 4- Counting Down at the Green Light

John sighed and rubbed his temples. Sherlock was bored. And when Sherlock was bored he was a nuisance to everyone around him. Unfortunately, that seemed to be limited to John. John sighed again.

Where did Sherlock get all that energy? He didn't sleep like a normal person and he generally didn't eat unless he was prompted so how did he do it? Did super intelligence translate to being tireless? If it did then that could lead to so many possibilities. Possibilities that didn't involve Sherlock destroying furniture, or walls, or perfectly good dishes, or appliances, or anything attached to 221B's foundation. Windows were pretty important, and so were walls. Why did he love the tall man again?

"Sherlock, would you please sit down?"

"Bored."

"I'm aware. Sit down please."

"No. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored."

"Is repeating that making you less bored? A case will pop up soon enough. Stop thinking about it, relax."

The look Sherlock shot him could have peeled wallpaper. "And how to you propose I do that? It must be so convenient being simpleminded. Do you think I can just turn everything off?"

Sherlock resumed rearranging everything in the flat. John got up from the couch and moved the cups that the brunet had just put on the mantel back into the cupboard.

"I don't know. I suppose I'm too dumb to give you an answer. But I'm sure someone of your intellect can figure it out."

He went upstairs, very conscious of Sherlock's gaze boring into his back.

-/-/-

He was interrupted from blogging when he heard a crash downstairs. He hurried down the stairs to find Sherlock breaking dishes in a sling-like contraption. John grabbed the dish in Sherlock's hand and set it on the coffee table, the one in the sling released and shattered against the wall by the kitchen. He looked around at the broken shards of porcelain on the carpet– how had he not heard this?

"Sherlock," he said slowly, "What are you doing?"

"An experiment."

"Did it have to involve our dishes? We're going to run out between the ones we can't use anymore because you've had some body part stored on them and this."

"You knew I was bored." The 'you left so I entertained myself' was unsaid.

John ran a hand through his hair– it was getting overly long, he'd need to cut it soon. "Grab your coat, if you have so much energy we can walk to the park and you can deduce stuff about the people you see there."

-/-/-

"Well," John looked around the apartment and noted the time, only 10pm–still too early, distraction tactics were needed or he'd get no sleep tonight if Sherlock was still bored. "That was a lovely date. How about some TV?"

Sherlock turned around and stared at him, "That wasn't a date."

John looked back at him and settled on the couch with a smile. "Yes, it was. Walk in the park; entertainment, that was you deducing people, by the way; dinner at Angelo's; walk together back to the apartment. Conclusion: date. I know you're thinking it too."

"No, I'm not. Dating is what the imbecilic masses do to put their best side forward in order to get sex. As it's based partially on a lie– no one shows their bad side until the other is trapped or committed– it invariably falls apart."

"Isn't that what you're doing?" he asked.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, "No. It's what _you're_ doing."

John got up, trapped Sherlock against the wall in his arms. "Well, I guess we're one up on everyone. We already know the worst about each other."

He watched Sherlock stiffen, looking at John's arms around him. John leaned in and Sherlock turned his head away. He observed his flatmate– for once Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes– before dropping his arms and planting a kiss on the tall man's jaw.

"Sherlock, I do expect you to clean up the broken dishes and buy a new dish set that includes everything. After that you can do whatever you'd like with the old dishes."

"I don't like cleaning, John."

"Well your brilliant mind should have thought about that before you started breaking dishes."

"You always clean up after me."

"Can't say I will be this time, or any other time I choose not to, really."

"Then we'll get a cleaning service."

"Do you really want someone potentially going through your things?" Silence was his response, "Thought not. Good night, Sherlock."

When John ventured downstairs the next morning he saw the glass and porcelain swept up against the wall. Of course, that was so Sherlock. Leave it to him to not be able to clean properly. John grabbed the broom and dustpan and finished the job.

When Sherlock came down, John raised an eyebrow at him and looked at the place where Sherlock had swept the broken dishes. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow in return and sat down.

John smiled mildly at him, "You can make your own tea. And I do expect to see a new dish set here when I get home from the surgery, regardless of if a case comes up.

And where, for God's sake, is our kettle?"

"Microwave."

(LINE BREAK)

John was not happy, he could even say he was quickly moving past annoyed. It started with a case– didn't it always? Started, ended, and whatever else was the middle. He and Sherlock had gotten a cab to the location Lestrade had texted Sherlock.

"Hello, freak."

"Donovan." Sherlock's voice was flat, "Scrubbed any floors lately? Ah, seems you have. How _is_ Anderson?"

Why did so many people call Sherlock a freak? And why did he let them, why did he put up with it? The Work, of course. It was maddening sometimes.

They stepped under the tape and were about to enter the warehouse when Anderson stepped out.

"Anderson."

"We don't need you here. We can figure this out on our own."

Sherlock smirked, "And how many generations do you think that will take? You wouldn't have a hope even if the dead spoke."

Anderson got up in tall man's space and Sherlock stepped back, "I don't need you here contaminating my crime scene, you psychopath. For all I know, you could have put the body there and are only here to cover your tracks. God knows what other hobbies you have, since you seem to get off on all these murdered people. Leave, freak."

_Sherlock_ had stepped back. John had enough. He smiled.

"Actually, you do need him," he stated calmly.

Anderson turned to him, surprised. "What?"

"Sherlock. You need him. You lot can't find your way out of a paper bag, do you really think you can solve this on your own? Don't answer that, it was rhetorical– you can't. You also don't have the authority to tell Sherlock to leave. If I recall correctly, and I do, DI Lestrade, who is your _boss_, was the one to call us here. You should be thankful that Sherlock is even solving your cases for you, much less for free. And Sherlock isn't a freak, he's simply smarter than you."

When Anderson flushed and opened his mouth, John held up a hand. "Don't speak. I'm done talking to you." He opened the warehouse door, "Come on, Sherlock."

-/-/-

When they got home John turned on the kettle before collapsing on the one seater. "Tea will be ready soon."

When Sherlock continued to stand in front of him and stare, John calmly propped his chin on his palm and stared back.

Sherlock took a step toward him, "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"I know."

Sherlock took another step till he was right in front of him, and made a face. "Thanks."

John smiled, "You're welcome. He was annoying me anyway."

Sherlock sat on the sofa beside him, partially straddling him and John wondered how Sherlock could always squeeze himself into such small spaces and still be comfortable with all those long limbs. He ran a hand through the dark-haired man's hair, massaging his scalp, and chuckled silently when Sherlock practically melted against him, moving his head so John's fingers would get all the right spots.

He relaxed as Sherlock's hand kneaded his side while the other flexed in his lap. John held a fascination for Sherlock's hands– perhaps because they were almost always covered by latex or leather. John rarely saw the pale skin of the brunet's hands and he could imagine sucking those long digits into his mouth, laving that translucent wrist with his tongue. He could only envisage how sensitive Sherlock's hands would be when he paid them proper homage. He stroked the pale hand in his lap with his fingertips as the other continued running through Sherlock's locks.

He wasn't expecting the hitch in brunet's breath or the groan that followed after but in hindsight maybe he should have; Sherlock was a very tactile person, after all. John continued mapping out the hand, tracing the blue veins, following the fingers, and making shapes in that sensitive palm until he realized that Sherlock was half hard against him. He stopped moving his hands and the brunet thrust against his side, whining before stilling his hips.

"Sherlock…"

This time, Sherlock kissed him. He shifted till he was more on top of John and just nibbled at his lips. John moaned and let Sherlock control the kiss. When Sherlock didn't do anything else he brushed his tongue against that silky lower lip, teasing that wide mouth open. Their tongues met slickly, and John ran a hand up Sherlock's back, feeling the knobs of his spine as he licked at his palate and swallowed his moans.

Those grey eyes slid closed and John felt a fierce feeling of satisfaction run through him, it meant that Sherlock wasn't thinking anymore. That he wasn't analyzing and thinking of how to replicate what they were doing but instead just allowing himself to feel. He pulled back, panting, before he kissed Sherlock again; tongue languidly swirling around the other's gently until they were both calm.

Well, it seemed like he had found a solution to prevent his awkward flatmate from being bored in the future– a few of them, actually.

"TV then?" he asked.

A/N: Sorry, I couldn't help that Sherlock's locks thing at the end; the pun was amusing. So here's the next chapter, it was a bit tedious but we get to better stuff next chapter. If you leave a review, I promise to reply back. :]


	5. And There's No Conspiracy

Disclaimer: Owned only in my fantasies.

Chapter 5- And There's No Conspiracy

John watched Sherlock, constantly. And either the man in question didn't notice or he wasn't saying anything about it, John fancied it was a bit of both. After all, Sherlock was an attention whore. He loved being in the spotlight, and he loved people noticing him, thinking about him even if it was bad thoughts. Sherlock loved it when he had everyone's undivided focus. It was part of what made him so high maintenance. Luckily for him, John didn't mind giving him that attention.

So John watched Sherlock, watched his reactions to things, watched the gears turning in that brilliant mind, and stayed silent. He may not have been a genius like Sherlock but even he could puzzle things out given enough time. So he watched and waited. He tended to be off track with deductions for cases but he generally wasn't when it came to Sherlock. He might even say he was attuned to the antagonistic man.

When Sherlock picked John in the hotel room, he had an inkling that Sherlock needed him more than the taller man thought. And when Sherlock suddenly made the demand for sex, with no prior inclination showing that he wanted to get horizontal, he knew the brunet was up to something. It was just a matter of waiting to see what it was. So he went along with it and kissed him. And only Sherlock could miss a cue so obvious, it was actually rather amusing. It also made him wonder if Sherlock was a virgin.

Sherlock had decided that he liked snogging so now they did it often. But John noticed other small things, like how Sherlock seemed reluctant to take it further. How Sherlock stiffened if his movement was restricted too much. How Sherlock really didn't like being restrained. How Sherlock relaxed and almost went boneless if John's hands drifted into his hair. It seemed that it was time for another conversation.

"Sherlock,"

The man in question snuck a hand under his shirt and stroked his back, while nuzzling at John's neck, "Hmm?"

"I know what you're doing, Sherlock, stop trying to distract me."

Sherlock sighed, and there was an instant switch in his demeanor. He went from practically cuddling John to no contact at all, sitting upright or going back to whatever he was doing like nothing had happened. John hated it when he did that.

"Fine, John. You obviously would prefer talking when we could be doing more enjoyable things instead."

"Why can't our conversations be enjoyable?" he asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "Conversation on a general level with most people is banal because the populace is dense– you, while on a slightly higher level of intellect than most, aren't much better. And this conversation now? If it were enjoyable we'd be making out because you could afford to put it off."

"Alright then, Sherlock. We need to talk."

"That's what we're doing now."

John sighed with exasperation and just decided to get on with it, "Are you a virgin?"

Sherlock froze. It was like looking at a photograph before he snapped into motion again, "No, I am not."

John blinked, "Really? You've had sex?"

Sherlock glared at him, "I thought that was implied when one says they're not a virgin."

"But with who?" John blurted out.

Sherlock frowned at him, "Are you saying I'm undesirable or unattractive?"

John snorted, "Not at all. All you have to do is look at me to know I'm not saying that. You know just how desirable I find you."

"And if you find me so irresistible, why haven't we had sex?"

John smiled, "I know you're trying to change the subject but you really just brought me back on track."

"Damnation," Sherlock uttered mildly.

"Were you, uh, there is really no nice way to say this. And I can't really imagine you being but if you were it would still be all fine we'd just do things a bit differently. But anyway-"

"Just ask, John!"

"Were you raped or did someone hurt you during sex?"

Sherlock blanched, "What?"

John looked at him carefully and inched closer, not sure if he should touch the other man. Sherlock's expression had closed off.

"Were you violated?"

"Why are you asking that?"

"Sherlock. Please, answer the question."

"No."

"You want to us to have sex."

"What's your point, John?"

"You're deliberately being difficult, help me out here. No matter your answer, nothing will change between us. _It's all fine_."

Sherlock sighed and grey eyes met his own steadily. "I wasn't raped."

John nodded, "Alright, then help me understand some of your reactions. If you weren't raped then what happened?"

"I don't know what you mean."

The last tendrils of John's patience snapped and he levered himself on top of his flatmate, caging him in his arms. Sherlock recoiled. "_That's_ what I mean, Sherlock. You say you've had sex but I'm the only person you've kissed properly and then there's your reactions," he gripped the brunet's chin, "Tell me."

"I was addicted to drugs."

An idea, a hint of what might have happened, started to unfurl in his head. John nodded, "I know."

Sherlock shrugged and the motion was sexy on limbs that should have been too long, ungraceful. "Mycroft found out and cut off the money. I had to get the drugs somehow."

Sherlock's voice was flat, like it was that simple. "So you exchanged your body for them," John stated.

"Yes and no. When your actions are that impaired by drugs you cease to have sex with other people, they have sex with you– your participation isn't necessary. It didn't occur to me that they could want me, that they'd be willing to take that instead when I no longer could afford it. And when they offered, I needed the high."

"And sometime they hurt you," It wasn't quite a question.

"And sometime they hurt me," Sherlock was practically vibrating in his stillness.

"And you kept going back, you let them continue?"

"I needed the fix; it only ever hurt when I wasn't high and I made sure I didn't stay that way for long."

"Which drugs?"

"Cocaine was my drug of choice."

"Why?" John asked– he needed to understand.

Sherlock got up abruptly, started pacing. "Do you know what it's like to not be able to stop? To always be thinking, analyzing, to always be bored? Of course you don't," he halted, "I took cocaine to stop. When I injected it into my veins I no longer mattered. I was nothing; everything else was nothing; and most importantly, I stopped thinking. Nothing mattered. It was the most effective remedy."

"Was it worth the withdrawal and the rest of the side effects?"

"Yes."

"You still wish you could take it now, don't you?"

Sherlock's chest rose with the deep breath he took. "Yes."

John was…enthralled as he watched the pupils in grey eyes dilate, that chest hitch with breath, and slender fingers clench, he imagined Sherlock would look something like this during sex. John was enthralled and angry. "Sit down," he bit out.

Sherlock's reaction was automatic: he sat on the floor. John's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to card his hand through dark, curly strands. "You're mine and only mine." His voice was bland but he tightened his hand in chestnut locks. "There will be no drugs or I will leave you. If you need a fix you come to me and I will take care of it but you do not take anything. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock whispered.

"Are there any in the house right now?"

"No."

"And why don't you take drugs, Sherlock?"

"You."

John let go of his hair, watched him rock back, noticed the bulge in his pants. "Good."

-/-/-

Sherlock was wrapped around him, robes askew, pale flesh bare underneath it. He wriggled above him, mewled into John's mouth as he clutched at him while they kissed. The brunet's hips thrust lightly against his thigh and he knew if given much longer, Sherlock would cum. That wasn't how he intended the evening to go, at least not yet.

Sherlock may not have thought John was the brightest crayon in the box but compared to him very few were. What his genius flatmate didn't realize was that he underestimated John, but John would use that. He needed every advantage he could get, especially in a relationship with Sherlock.

John may not have had sex with another man while Sherlock had but John had two things going for him. One, Sherlock didn't have much expectations of sex/didn't really enjoy it because of his experiences; and two, John was a doctor. By the time he was done with him, Sherlock would beg. Just because he hadn't had sex with a man didn't mean he didn't know what to do with the human body. He had given his share of prostate exams and was intimately acquainted with anatomy. He was willing to find out every place Sherlock liked, every area that was sensitive, and every spot that made him react. John could be a very patient man. That didn't necessarily bode well for Sherlock.

A/N: I was really disappointed by the lack of reviews last chapter. I would just like to remind you guys that effort and reciprocation are two way streets so please review.


	6. Reading Into Every Word You Say

Disclaimer: It's not mine.

Chapter 6- Reading Into Every Word You Say

John was teasing him. There was no other possible explanation. Sherlock just didn't understand why. John wanted him; he knew this so why wasn't he fucking him into every durable surface in the flat? John would start things but he wouldn't finish; he wouldn't even go past kissing and light caresses. It was infuriating. Sherlock only had so much patience and it had run out. Something needed to be done about this.

He probably should have planned something, figured out a way to manipulate John into his pants. He should have formulated an argument for their having sex more than that he didn't want John to leave him. He should have had more patience– after all, John had waited for him more than three years hadn't he? Him being a little impatient for it was nothing compared to that. But Sherlock wasn't a considerate person and John had known that when he fell in love with him. And Sherlock wasn't about to change.

He probably should have thought this through. But he didn't.

After ensuring that John was home, Sherlock walked into the living room and took off his clothes. He climbed into the doctor's lap and nipped at John's lips just the way he liked. Sherlock may not have had much experience with kissing in the past but he considered himself observant enough to find out what John liked and had no problem using it to his own advantage.

He nibbled on the helix of John's ear, listening to the blonde's groans. "Fuck me."

John incoherently mumbled, "Wha–?'

Sherlock pushed a hand underneath the bulky sweater and mapped out John's chest.

"I _said_ 'fuck me'," he enunciated slowly, bringing his hand down the doctor's stomach to his treasure trail.

John jerked back as if he'd been burned. He stood with Sherlock in his arms and dumped him onto the couch before kneeling in front of him and searching his face for a few moments. "You aren't ready."

Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal, "And how would you know that? I think I would know more than you would, John. You said it was all fine and that it wouldn't change anything and yet we still haven't had sex. You're behavior is leading me to conclude that you do not want me," he finished icily.

John sighed, "Sherlock, we've been over this already. I do want you."

"No, you don't, John," he said bitterly, " You want the idea of me but you don't want the reality, it's more convenient that way for you."

John locked eyes with him with shocking intensity, "I want _you_, Sherlock. I am well aware of the reality and all your flaws, could even list them if you wanted. I've known you for years and I still want you, more than want you. I _love_ you, so don't patronize me, Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to hold his gaze, frustrated that none of this was working. He was naked, uncomfortable, and upset– not that he would show it. It was all well and good that John professed to want him, even love him– and he believed him– but there must be a bigger part of him that _didn't_ want him and all his baggage if the doctor still hadn't done anything about it. If John was fine stopping things even after all the teasing, what was to stop him from getting tired of Sherlock? The side that didn't want him would start to eclipse their relationship. And Sherlock had no way to make him stay, not if he continued to refuse to sleep with him.

Sherlock would do anything to make sure John didn't leave. "If you want me, John, _prove_ it. _Show_ me."

One moment Sherlock was leaning forward on the couch and the next he was sprawled across it, John on top of him.

John started with his face. He worked his way down his ear, grazing the curl of it with his teeth before nibbling at his earlobes. Sherlock groaned at the sparks of pleasure that zinged through him. John moved to his cheekbones and down his jaw, laying open mouth kisses everywhere he could reach. Soon they were kissing, tongues tangling wetly as they gasped into each other's mouths. John licked his palate and Sherlock twitched upwards, moan being eaten by John's mouth.

He closed his eyes and waited for it. Any moment now John would stop and leave him wanting some obscure thing. And Sherlock wouldn't know what to do. Was there anything that could be done? He would have to accept that it would never happen and that there was nothing to keep fighting for when John didn't want him. And when that happened Sherlock didn't want to see it, didn't want it burned into his memory because he could never erase John. He found it ironic that his best quality, his observation skills, was the one thing he didn't want at the moment. So he closed his eyes and waited for John to pull back.

He trembled when calloused hands caressed his chest instead. His eyes shot open in shock and met blue.

"Are you certain of this, Sherlock?" John asked.

He took a deep breath, inhaling John scent, and tried to stop trembling. John hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped. He was, in fact, still petting Sherlock's chest. Perhaps John hadn't just wanted an ideal.

"Yes. Don't stop."

A mouth followed the hands and sharp teeth bit into his pectoral muscles, leaving an imprint of teeth. Sherlock went from half hard to tumescent as if the bite had a direct line to his cock. John's mouth continued to his areola and laved it before blowing cool air on it till his nipples were stiff peaks. He moved to the other side and did the same thing, never touching the nipples, till it drove Sherlock to distraction. He moaned and resisted the urge to squash John's face against his chest till that mouth was exactly where he wanted it. He whined low in his throat and moved restlessly beneath John.

John shifted down his body a bit, wiggling, and giving his prick stimulation. He arched into it instinctively and bit back a yell when John's mouth closed around his nipple. It was wet and warm and perfect and, _oh_, the suction was so good. It was marvelous. Why hadn't anyone tried this before? His nipples tingled as John continued sucking before biting, applying a little more pressure each second till he was arching off the couch in pained pleasure. His eyelids fluttered as his hands slipped into John's hair.

"John, John, _ahh_. Stop, stop, it's too much," he hissed.

John's teeth let go and his tit was a throbbing point of pain and heat. He looked down at his red nipple and poked at it, drawing his hand back at the sharp pain. Oh God. John batted his hand away and was suddenly attached to his sore tit sucking gently and Sherlock's eyes closed. Oh, it felt so good. Why did it feel so good even though it hurt?

John drew back from his nipple with a fond pat and moved to the other one. Sherlock had thought that what he did before was great but this felt amazing. His nipple felt hypersensitive and he tried to stop the small spasms that rocked him as John flicked at his tit and rolled the pebbled nipple between his fingers. John gently tugged, and Sherlock bit his lip to keep from crying out. Then that wonderful mouth was on him again and it was all roughness and wet pulling. And there were starbursts and ridiculous sensitivity–like his skin was too tight– and he was cumming. _Yesss_, he was cumming.

He was vaguely aware of John nuzzling at his side as his body stiffened and he fell to pieces. He opened his eyes– when had he closed them?– and saw John smiling at him. He automatically smiled back and decided he would allow John to get away with the involuntary reaction just this once in light of what he had just given him. Sherlock could feel John's hands rubbing at his legs; cradling his side; caressing his calf, never stationary.

John continued downward, licking up the cum on his stomach and mouthing at his flaccid cock. Sherlock felt a stir of interest through the post orgasm lethargy. John licked and bit red marks into his thigh, fingering the red marks left over. When John reached his hipbones and started stroking his ass, Sherlock stilled. It wasn't quite freezing but more his entire body tensing and unraveling all the boneless, relaxation that post-orgasmic haze had given him.

John noticed. He rubbed at his back, the doctor's fingers massaging the places his digits came into contact with. When Sherlock still remained tense, John pulled back and ran his hand through his hair. "What is it? Are you alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, "Yeah. Continue."

John nudged him and after he opened his eyes gave him a partially annoyed look. "Sherlock, you're not relaxed anymore. I'm not going to keep going."

Sherlock's lips tightened, "It doesn't matter. Just do it. It's fine, you already gave me an orgasm. You don't have to keep worrying about my comfort, I assure you I can take anything you think you can give me."

John recoiled from him as if he'd been slapped. He paled and his eyes went wide–horror, why horror?– before he slowly turned red and his fists clenched. Sherlock watched as John worked himself into a right strop and tried to puzzle out why he was angry. He hadn't done anything that would cause the man to become that angry, perhaps it was something he said?

He was surprised when he heard John's voice, it was quiet, "Is that what you think of me?"

He refrained from rolling his eyes, "John, what are you talking about? If you could get on with the sex, I'd appreciate it."

"Do I look like a fucking rapist?" John's voice practically lashed at him, it was so angry and cold.

Sherlock shot him a puzzled look, "No."

John stood up and backed away from him. "Then why would you think I would just force you even though you're not comfortable or wanting it?"

"I want it."

John laughed, an abrupt huff of air, "Which is why your dick is limp. Before you were starting to get hard, you don't have an erection now."

Sherlock stood up and moved toward him, "That doesn't matter. The point is that you were supposed to have sex with me and ejaculate."

He touched John, felt the muscles jump under his skin before his hand was shaken off. He tried again, grasping John's bicep, and winced when John clutched at his arm in turn. That would bruise in the morning.

John let go of him and stepped back. "For someone so smart you can be incredibly dumb sometimes." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and John cut him off, "No. Shut the fuck up and listen for once instead of being selfish. If I had continued and fucked you I would have been no better than those guys that violated you, it would have been me having sex with you instead of mutual enjoyment, and if you think that I'm like them then there is a serious problem between us and this won't work."

John headed to the door after snatching his wallet off the side table and shrugged on his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." The words were coated in ice.

"I haven't violated any of the terms."

John turned around and simply stared at him, before shaking his head. Sherlock could see the disappointment in everything from his eyes to his posture. "You haven't broken any of the terms of what, Sherlock?" his voice was tired.

Sherlock's voice was small when he answered. John was too close to the door for his liking, "Our agreement. I haven't done any drugs or anything to harm myself or cheated."

Sherlock remembered the cheating clause. _John's hand was in his hair, just shy of pulling in a harsh, relentless grip. He'd never seen the doctor look so angry while it was directed at him except when he came back after the three years._

_John snarled, eyes so blue, intense and completely focused on him. _

"_Sherlock," John's voice was bland, like he was discussing the weather, but deeper than normal. Sherlock felt hot, contained, restless. The hand tightened, regaining his attention, "You will not cheat on me. If you need something more you will tell me and I will do whatever I have to keep you happy and take care of you."_

_He nodded and John's hands clenched in his hair again, "Sherlock, if we do this and I find out there was anybody behind my back, I will break you. You can consider this whole thing over and me gone because I will take it to mean that you don't want or need me around anymore."_

_Sherlock shook his head. He would probably mess up some other way or inadvertently hurt himself but there was __**only**__ John, no one else. He would never betray him like that._

"That could be debated," John's tone was flat and brought his thoughts back to the present, "You don't think me raping you wouldn't hurt? That forcing me to do that wouldn't hurt? Why, Sherlock? Tell me what's so important that you keep on pushing for sex even though we both know you aren't ready and don't want it."

He didn't respond. John nodded and opened the door, "That's what I thought."

"I needed you to stay with me!" he blurted out, voice low and urgent. "Sex was supposed to ensure that you wouldn't have thoughts of leaving."

John looked at him and he could see the disapproval in his eyes. "You're a bastard, Sherlock. A selfish bastard, and if I were any less of a man you'd be on the floor right now but I don't abuse my partners. Though I may as well since you have such a low opinion of me that you think I'd rape you."

"It wouldn't be rape!"

"No, just a way to manipulate me into staying. I love you, did you even think of what that would do to me?"

Sherlock felt a shock of warmth go through him at John's proclamation. He still loved him. It quickly faded with John's next words. "I just can't stand to look at you right now so I'm going leave. I need to be away from you."

"Will you be coming back?" his voice was quiet, hesitant.

The look on John's face softened a bit, "Yes. You may a hurtful idiot but that doesn't negate the love bit. I'll come back tomorrow or the day after but I just need some time right now."

"I apologize." He didn't want John to leave.

"And that would be helpful if you fully understood what you are apologizing for and meant it. You don't."

Sherlock meant it; he had hardly meant anything more in his life. He might not have completely understood John's reticence about this but he did recognize the feeling behind it, he had hurt John and that hadn't been his intention.

"Sherlock." He glanced up. "When I get back there will be a frank discussion and some negotiating but this will never happen again. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

The door clicked quietly after John and the silence in the flat nearly overwhelmed him.

That night he dreamed. If Sherlock were a less tenacious man, he would have called them nightmares– nightmares that hadn't occurred in a couple of years.

A/N: And we have a really long chapter. I had a difficult time writing this one so reviews would be appreciated.


	7. Wishing Well

Disclaimer: I wish, but I don't own it.

Chapter 7- Wishing Well

Three days had passed since John returned to 221B Baker Street. He and Sherlock weren't walking on eggshells around each other anymore but things weren't really back to normal either. He remembered everything that had happened when he initially got home.

_One day later John opened the door to their flat. He would have stayed away the full two days because he really just needed some time but he didn't want to think of what Sherlock would be up to or the state of the flat if left unchecked that long._

_Sherlock was in his chair when he came in, oddly still and silent. Grey eyes flicked toward him before glancing away._

"_Hullo, Sherlock."_

_A pale hand twitched and then clenched on the arm of the sofa. "You came back."_

_John sighed, "Of course I did, I said I would didn't I?"_

_John didn't get an answer, just another side-glance. He was still angry, really angry, but Sherlock was looking at him as if he expected him to rip his heart out and stomp on it; as if he expected to be disappointed. John sighed and the taut ball of vexation inside him loosened up._

_He moved toward the taller man before resting his forward against Sherlock's, "What am I to do with you?" _

"_Stay."_

"_I plan to. Sometimes I just need some space for both our sakes. I seem to have quite a temper."_

"_The intention of my–"_

"_Please don't. I'd rather not talk about this right now, it's still a bit sore."_

"_You're not going to let me explain." Sherlock's voice was flat._

_John shook his head, "I am. Just not right now. Three days, Sherlock, that's all I ask. We have a lot to talk about but I want us both to be coherent when we do it. It's not just yesterday; I need to know your hang-ups and your limits, how far you're willing to go, and everything that you need. We have a lot of talking to do and I'm in no state to do it now. So in three days we'll go out on a date, do something enjoyable, and hash it out. Is that okay with you?"_

_Curls bobbed on the brunet head as he nodded._

_He lightly brushed his lips over Sherlock's, repeatedly, until the man stopped holding himself rigid. Just enough to let Sherlock know that he wasn't going anywhere and that their problems were fixable._

"_Good. Have you eaten?"_

_Sherlock shook his head. _

"_Alright, I'll take care of that right now." John straightened up and headed to the kitchen._

It was now the day of their date and John had to stop himself from pacing. Sherlock had insisted on taking care of all the details and John was stuck somewhere between dread and excitement. Sherlock was brilliant and was one of the people that knew him well but he wasn't the most considerate at times. That meant the date would either be extraordinary or completely terrible.

Sherlock came into the room and John stood up.

"It wasn't my intention to hurt you with my actions, I just didn't want you to leave."

"So we're going to do this right now?"

Sherlock nodded.

John sighed and sat back down, gesturing to the seat beside him, "Alright. It hurt that you thought I could take you when that wasn't completely what you wanted; that you were willing to let me rape you. I love you and that would have damaged you and destroyed me."

"John, what happened when I needed the drugs and what happened with you was consensual; I agreed."

"You agreed then because you were suffering from withdrawal and didn't have a choice, that's duress, and even now you flinch and are uncomfortable with sex. You may have agreed but you weren't a participant and they hurt and didn't take care of you. It may not be the dictionary definition but that's rape."

"Alright, I may not have found what they did pleasurable but I ran out of ideas that were feasible, John. I didn't seem to be doing anything right and I needed you to stay. I tried to make myself appealing to you but it didn't work because you don't desire me, or at least not enough. I was willing to try sex again with _you_."

"Sherlock, I want you and you are appealing but I do have self-control. We probably wouldn't even be together now had I not pushed. I just don't ever want to be associated with _them_ in your mind. I didn't want to be someone else that hurt you like that. You also agreed with me because you wanted me to stay, are you seeing the similarities I'm drawing between the two here? It's still coercion of a sort."

"No, it's not. You make me do a lot of things I don't want to be doing, eating and not taking drugs being prime examples, but sex is not one of them. Yes, I expect it to hurt– it's hurt in the past and it will probably still hurt with you regardless– but I do expect you to make it bearable."

"And you should expect more than just bearable or slightly painful with me. You're always hurting yourself. Is there something more that you need, something I'm not seeing? Am I missing something?"

"You take care of me better than anyone else ever has but you also know how uneventful daily life is for me, being surrounded by idiots. A hint of danger or risk, sometimes even pain, makes things infinitely more interesting. It makes everything else worth it."

John ran a hand through his hair, frowned, "Sherlock, I just need to know one thing. Did you agree to have sex with me so I could hurt you or because you expected it to hurt?"

"No! You're still not getting it, John! You refuse to see me beyond some broken person that was violated and because of that refuse to do anything with me but you won't let me do anything I enjoy."

"And I suppose you enjoy taking drugs and putting yourself in danger?"

"So what if I do, John? We all have bad habits– you shoot the people out to hurt me and have control issues and I put myself in harms way, it seems to be a perfect match."

"I made those limits because I need you alive. Everybody dies eventually but I won't be losing you to something that can be prevented. All of them are reasonable when it comes to you. I'm not trying to stifle you."

"But you're not giving me everything I need either and you gave me your word. I don't hurt myself: no drugs, no hiding injuries, no running off on my own, no not eating, and no cheating and in return you give me everything. This is not everything. How am I supposed to stop thinking that sex is painful and unpleasant if you won't give me better memories of the act? If there's anyone that could change my view on it, it's you."

"Are you making that a challenge?"

"If that's what I have to do, John," Sherlock looked at him and he could tell the other man was reading him. "You don't completely trust me."

John was momentarily confused. "With your health? No. I don't trust anyone but me with that."

"No. With sex, you don't want to give me that last piece of you because you're afraid there will be nothing left."

John fought to keep his facial expression neutral. Sometimes Sherlock was disconcerting, he managed to get things that you hadn't even thought of before yet was so clueless when it came to some emotions. "And why would that matter?"

"You don't want me to leave. You don't trust that another Moriarty won't come along and take me away and thus don't trust me."

Leave it to Sherlock to hit the mark. "You're right. I love you but I don't think you'd stay if something more arresting came along and then I'd be left with nothing– there is nothing for me after you but the same doesn't apply for you. However, that doesn't mean when that time comes I wouldn't let you go, I'm not going to keep you somewhere you don't want to be."

"I left because he was going to kill you along with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"And you let me think you were dead for three years. That doesn't exactly inspire faith. You watched me go to your grave for years and grieve, you should have told me."

"I'm sorry."

John laughed, "No you're not."

Sherlock shrugged, "You lived. We've had this argument before."

"I know and my position still won't change."

"Even if something more engaging comes along– though that's highly doubtful– I won't leave you again. You can come with me."

John smiled. "Okay. We ready to go then?"

The brunet raised an eyebrow as if to say 'do you really think you're pulling one over? On _me_?' before asking, "Are you willing to give sex with me a try?

"Yes. One last thing though. Now that we're going to give sex a try, is there anything you are _not_ willing to do or don't want done to you? Any hang-ups besides the obvious?"

"No restraints."

John looked up at him and Sherlock shook his head. Okay, he could leave this alone, for now. "Anything else?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then we'll figure it out as we go along."

Sherlock stood up and grabbed his hand. "We will. I believe we're ready to go _now_."

-/-/-/

Sherlock was gloating. John would have said that it wasn't an attractive look on him but everything was.

John looked around the exotic flower garden. "What gave you this idea?"

"There's something here for both of us. Flowers aren't just for females. I thought you'd be interested in the wide range of plants since you appreciate nature and most of these aren't native to England. In addition, you're the type of person that has the patience for growing greenery– you've dealt with me for years, after all. For me, perhaps one of these flowers will show up in a case, they also have poisonous and dangerous plant life that we'll get to see after hours since the owner owes me a favour."

"Did we get in here for free, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head and started pulling John down a path, "No. I paid since we're on a date. You'll also get to bring home a few plants and try your hand at growing them, if you'd like. They have seedlings or seeds if you want to plant them yourself."

John pulled Sherlock into a semi-private spot and kissed him soundly. He hadn't thought that Sherlock would have been that thoughtful when he panned the date. "Thank you."

The brunet smirked at him. "Thank me when it's over."

-/-/-/

Sherlock pouted, "I still think you should have gotten the castor bean."

"I'd rather not have you try your hand at making poison with the seeds, thank you."

The pout didn't waver. "All you're bringing home are herbs. Boring."

"We don't even have the optimal growing conditions for a castor bean plant, it needs heat and humidity and sunshine."

"We could provide the optimal growing conditions, that's what AC is for and there are certain types of synthetic lights that imitate sunshine or would give the plant enough light."

John ran a finger down the inside of Sherlock's arm after folding up his sleeves and watched the man shiver. "Look at you, you're skin is like milk. While I could handle that change of temperature, I doubt you could. It would be uncomfortable for you."

"Comfort rarely matters, you've seen some of my experiments."

"It's not the same, this one would be more long term."

"I could do it," Sherlock stubbornly stated.

"Well, I'll be the one taking care of them so I suppose it doesn't matter. Your taste buds will thank me eventually for the plants I chose. Now, what are we going to eat?"

-/-/-/

John and Sherlock entered the flat, door slamming behind them. They kicked off their shoes and John pulled Sherlock into a kiss. "Thanks for the evening, it was lovely. I was actually starting to doubt that you could be that thoughtful."

The tall man kissed him back, nipping at his lips. "Silence, I'm brilliant. Of course I knew you well enough to organize a successful date."

"Yeah, except forgetting to plan the food bit."

"We had breakfast and lunch. Missing one meal wouldn't have killed you. Besides you know that eating only slows down the mind, though perhaps that doesn't apply to you. It all worked out anyway, we managed to get a free meal."

"Because the waitress spilled your drink on me," John deadpanned.

"You were flirting with me. I merely helped by telling you exactly what you could do with me when we got home if you really wanted to thank me."

"While she was passing, which resulted in your drink getting spilled on me."

"Mmhmm. And no one's ever worn sparkling water so well."

They took off their coats and hung them on the rack.

Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow, "What do you plan to do with me now, Dr. Watson?"

No time like the present. "Strip."

The other man actually stumbled, "What?"

John was amused. "You seemed to have no problem taking off your clothes the other day. Strip, and you'll see what I plan to do with you."

John had never seen clothes taken off petulantly but Sherlock managed to make that look sexy too.

When the other male had all that beautiful, pale skin exposed, John made his way over and lightly mapped it with his hands. "You have skin made for marking, so prettily pale." He bit over the mark that was already on Sherlock's pectoral, felt him shudder under his mouth.

"I think I'll start with a blowjob," John dropped to his knees and Sherlock wheezed.

John may not have ever given a blowjob in his life but he was a damn good doctor so he was sure he could figure out how to make it good. He started with Sherlock's angular hips, nipping at the sharp slant of his bones down to the softer skin of his thighs while running his hands up Sherlock's ribs. He made his way back up to the curly thatch of pubic hair, nuzzling at the marks he had just left.

The brunet was uttering little sounds, half gasps- half moans, and long fingers carded through his sandy hair before gripping. John took that as a sign to get to it. He ran his nose up the slim, erect, pink cock, tongue flicking little licks against it before he swallowed as much as he could.

Sherlock made a sharp noise and he found himself gagging when those hips thrust deeper in his mouth.

"_John_," Sherlock moaned and thrust again, continuing to choke him.

John clutched Sherlock's hips and pulled back, coughing. He looked up and assessed the younger man. Dilated pupils, flushed skin, heavy breathing. Beautiful. John had caused that, not some case or anything else. It was a good look on Sherlock.

"John?"

"You're mine."

"And you're _mine_."

"What you are is too coherent." John pushed Sherlock down onto the couch and started blowing him again.

John parted the pale man's long legs and pressed his hips down with one hand. When he was certain that Sherlock wouldn't be choking him again he started sucking. His other hand moved downward to caress the brunet's balls, rolling them gently in his hand. Sherlock's legs wrapped around his back, squeezing in time to anything he liked while he emitted a constant stream of sound.

John hummed, trying what he liked when girls gave him blowjobs. Sherlock's body jerked like he had touched a live wire to it. He pulled back so only the head was in his mouth and played with the slit while his hand moved from Sherlock's balls and started stroking the rest of his cock. He licked lightly at Sherlock's frenulum, running his tongue over the place where his head meet his shaft and Sherlock's legs tightened around him as the sounds got louder.

John let the head slip out of his mouth, shaking off Sherlock's clutching fingers and licked his way to the base of the other man's penis. He licked at where the base connected to Sherlock's balls and around it while his free hand lightly stroked the crease of the brunet's testes.

Sherlock grabbed at him, "John, _John_."

John looked up, concerned, and Sherlock was cumming. The brunet's body arched, even as his eyes rolled back, and his legs tightened around his back. Sherlock shivered, body spasming, as one hand clenched at the couch arm and the other held onto him. When the orgasm was over Sherlock went limp on the couch, legs falling onto the floor with a sigh. John wanted to kiss the breath back into him.

He tried but Sherlock pushed him away with an annoyed moan, before his arm flopped back onto the couch. John settled for a kiss on the cheek, forehead, eyelids, and jaw. "You are magnificent."

Sherlock smiled.

A/N: And another chapter down. This was supposed to go up two days ago but life got in the way so I apologize. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. I'd also like to thank everyone for all the wonderful reviews, alerts, and favourites last chapter. We've passed the 10,000 word mark!


	8. Heavier Than I Knew

Disclaimer: Sherlock would be more M rated if I owned it, but it's not because I don't.

Chapter 8- Heavier Than I Knew

Sherlock had been balefully glaring at him for the past few days. He refused to talk to him or sleep with him– sleep only of course, something that had started fairly recently– and had been picking at everything he ate.

John walked into the living room and raised his hands in surrender. Sherlock had pulled out all the fuses for the kitchen and it had taken John a while to figure out what he had done and then find and replace them.

At first he thought that the power was out but when everything else in the flat was still working that theory was proven wrong. His next conclusion was that perhaps a fuse had been tripped. John didn't really consider himself a handyman but he was capable of fixing the small things so he had checked. All the fuses for the kitchen area were missing. That's when he knew that he had done something to incur Sherlock's ire. The tall man knew the kitchen was John's domain; mostly because he refused do anything but store body parts in it. So Sherlock messing with the way things worked in there was a direct attack– maybe even retaliation, he wasn't sure– against him.

John had spent the next hour locating all the fuses and drinking copious amounts of tea– thank GOD the kettle stayed hot for a while– before he decided that it was time to tackle Sherlock, figuratively of course.

"Whatever it was that I did, I'm sorry."

"Hmmph." The brunet didn't move from where we he was stretched out on the couch, back toward him.

"Come on, Sherlock," John wheedled, he took the time to put a cup of tea made just the way the genius liked it–two creams, one sugar– on the table beside the couch, "Don't you want to tell me what I did wrong and how stupid I've been?"

No reaction. John sighed and lifted Sherlock's feet before plonking himself on the couch and setting them in his lap. The feet dug painfully into his stomach and thighs for a few moments before going still.

When they passed the twenty-minute mark and Sherlock was still silent, John reached for the remote to turn on the TV. Sherlock didn't seem like he would be talking anytime soon.

"Ten pounds."

John was confused. "Okay?"

"That is how much weight I have gained since _you_ started feeding me. I can no longer properly fit into my trousers. I am…fat."

John bit his lip to keep from laughing, "How much do you weigh now?" He knew that Sherlock knew. The genius was too thorough a person to not find out everything he possibly could about his newfound weight gain as soon as his pants stopped fitting.

"One hundred and fifty pounds."

Both of John's eyebrows rose. "Congratulations, you are now closer to not being underweight," he deadpanned.

"What I'd _like_," Sherlock snapped, kicking him slightly, "is to be able to fit into my pants."

John sighed. "Sherlock. You are aware that the average weight for a man your size is around one hundred and sixty-five pounds? You're still fifteen pounds underweight by those standards. I'm one-seventy, am _I_ fat? Just buy some new clothing."

When Sherlock didn't say anything to him, didn't talk to him for the rest of the day actually, John thought that was that and that the conversation was over. It wasn't like things could get worse from that. John should have known better.

That night Sherlock refused to stop playing his violin. It was like he knew John was short on sleep and really needed the rest and was playing the loud, discordant notes deliberately to get him back– oh wait, he probably was.

John shrugged a robe over his boxers and shuffled down the stairs before leaning on the wall in the living room. "Sherlock, it's three o'clock in the bloody morning. You know I have work tomorrow. Please stop it."

He got a haughty sniff before he was given Sherlock's back and a particularly off key note. John could feel his shoulders tensing up and deliberately relaxed them. He tried to scrape together the sleeping brain cells in his head long enough to talk his lover down.

"Sherlock, please. What do you want to stop? I'll do your laundry."

"You already do my laundry."

"You can have my computer, and my phone…and my teacup."

"I already confiscate your possessions for my use whenever I want them."

"Then what do you want?" Was there a desperate tint to his voice just now? No, of course not. That was just the _lack of sleep_.

"Rescind the eating rule," Sherlock answered glibly.

"No," John said flatly, "You are not fat and eating is necessary. You're already too skinny as it is, if you got skinnier you'd be stabbing me."

The glare Sherlock shot him could have melted marble. John sighed and tried again, "I need you to eat and be healthy, Sherlock. I think you look fine. Come to bed please."

Sherlock cradled the violin between the crook of his neck and his shoulder and tightened the sash of his robe, "I'm not tired." He adjusted the violin and resumed playing disharmonious notes. Why couldn't it have been Moonlight Sonata or something restful?

The last of John's patience snapped, he needed sleep and was willing to malpractice for it. He found himself striding across the living room to the taller man where he pulled at the tie to the sash and explored Sherlock's bared stomach with his hands.

"_You_ are sexy," John growled, he squeezed Sherlock's flat stomach, "_This_ is sexy. I like you with a bit of weight on you."

He tugged the violin and then the bow out of Sherlock's hands and set them carefully on the couch before picking up his difficult lover. "_We_ are going to bed."

John moved up the stairs and brought them to his bedroom, his was neater, and set Sherlock on the mattress. He spooned behind the brunet and absently petted his hair as he drifted off to sleep.

-/-/-/

John came home to icy silence and Mycroft. Of course the brother had shown up. It wasn't like Sherlock wasn't a handful enough without his brother provoking/bullying/manipulating him. No, it was too much to ask that nothing more stressful occur while he was trying to convince Sherlock that he wasn't fat. He inwardly swore and wondered if he could herd Mycroft out before too much damage was done.

Mycroft looked up and smiled at him as if he could hear his thoughts. "Hello, John. I just came by to see how Sherlock was doing and offer any services necessary."

John sighed, no, it didn't look Mycroft would be leaving a second before he was ready. "Tea?"

The smirk the older brother sent in his direction said that he knew it too. "Please."

Mycroft waited until John was back to state the reason he came. "Sherlock, I heard you gained ten pounds."

Sherlock stiffened and John decided to nip that right in the bud. "Ten pounds he desperately needs as he's still underweight. And I do say that as his doctor."

Mycroft took a sip of his tea then grimaced, "Yes. Well, I suspect, as the two of you are more than just friends now that you are saying it as more than just his doctor and are thus obliged. Nonetheless, that is unimportant. I simply came to offer the services of my tailor. As it's been a while since you were last measured, I'm sure he will enjoy the task. It wouldn't do for a Holmes to be seen as anything less than perfection." Mycroft smiled condescendingly.

Sherlock stood up, wrapped his robe tighter around himself. "Get out, Mycroft."

Mycroft stood, "The appointment is scheduled two days from now at four. Do try not to be late."

Sherlock sniffed, "And have you scheduled yourself in too? I see you've gained five pounds."

The smile Mycroft directed at his brother didn't reach his eyes. "Fortunately _my_ clothing still fits. Good day, Sherlock. I'll see myself out."

John sighed and followed him to close the door. And there went a perfectly good evening. John was about to close the downstairs door when he looked at Mycroft's smug visage and changed his mind. "Did you really have to do that? That sort of immaturity is something I would have expected from Sherlock, not you."

Mycroft opened his mouth to object and John raised a hand, "No. I don't want to hear anything you have to say. You claim to care about your brother and his wellbeing, and perhaps you do but I'm going to be the one that goes upstairs now to fix this. So thank you. I didn't think you the type to kick family when they're down. I'll see you in two days at his dress appointment if you're there because that's what supporting lovers _do_. Good day." John closed the door.

-/-/-/

That night Sherlock refused to eat dinner. John was thankful that the next day was a Saturday. That gave him the weekend to deal with this problem or do a bit of damage control.

By midday Saturday, John had ran out of patience. Sherlock refused to eat, he refused to sleep, he actually refused to do anything that didn't involve moping and abusing his violin or listening to music at maximum volume– Sherlock had quite the music collection and usually it was quite pleasant to listen to but it wasn't in this context.

John called Lestrade and asked him if Sherlock could tag along on his murder the next day. It didn't rate a six on Sherlock's Interesting Scale but it would have to do. That it was a murder, even if it wasn't particularly odd would give the genius something to do until the tailor's. It was a win-win situation: the detective inspector got to solve the murder faster and Sherlock got momentarily distracted.

John finished lunch and set it on a tray; time for the next trial. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before going into the living room and depositing the tray onto Sherlock's lap. Before he could say anything Sherlock was pushing the tray off. John swore and caught it before setting it on the coffee table. "Enough. You are aware that the less you eat the more your body stores fat for the next time it thinks it's starving? You didn't eat dinner last night and I won't ask you to eat anything else today but I expect you to eat at least half of the food on that plate and _all_ of the salad. Now, I'm going to go upstairs and if when I come back down I see that you haven't eaten, I am going to be very upset."

-/-/-/

"Sherlock," John sighed, "You're bored out of your mind here. Please just go look at Lestrade's case. I told him you would."

"Well you shouldn't have told him that."

"Will you at least tell me why?"

"What, pray tell, am I supposed to wear there when my clothes no longer fit me?" Sherlock asked.

"You can wear one of my jumpers, and I'm sure you have pants that still fit, perhaps jeans? You're going to have to wear something to the tailor either way so you may as well leave now and do the case."

"I do not want to. And why would I wear one of your sweaters? They're atrocious and likely wouldn't fit."

"People wear their lover's clothing all the time. And my sweaters aren't atrocious, they are warm and comfortable– they are also big enough to fit you. If you really hate them that much though, feel free to wear something else if you have anything."

"People wear their lover's clothing? Why?"

"Yes. I don't know. People can wear their lover's clothing as a way to show others that the person belongs to you? To show how comfortable you are with that person?"

Grey eyes assessed him, "I will wear one of your jumpers."

John smiled. "Will you do the case?"

"It will be boring."

"Humour me. Please?"

Sherlock sighed. "Very well."

-/-/-/

At four o'clock John pulled a bad-tempered Sherlock into the tailors. The brunet was in fine form indulging in a full sulk.

"Sherlock," John hissed, "You can have your wobbly but you and I will still be here when it's over so would you just cooperate so we can get out of here faster? You're being childish."

A man came to the front and frowned at them, "I'm sorry but we're closed today."

John frowned back. "We have an appointment. Sherlock Holmes."

The male blinked, "Oh, and you're John Watson?"

"Yes."

"Alright, if you'd both come on back and strip to your underwear, we'll get you measured and set up with a wardrobe."

John's brow furrowed, "You must be mistaken. I don't have an appointment, he does." John pointed at Sherlock.

"We were told to set you up with a wardrobe as well."

John smiled tightly, "Sherlock, may I burrow your phone?"

The genius turned slightly, "Back pocket."

John removed the phone and scrolled down the contact list. He looked at 'Unworkable' and frowned at Sherlock, "Why do you have Anderson's number in your phone?"

"Prank calls and birthdays."

"You really shouldn't provoke him." He scrolled back up till he found 'Cake Eater' and called.

The phone rang for a short while. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Hello, John. What can I help you with?"

"Why is the man at the tailor shop telling me that there was a wardrobe commissioned for me too?"

"That would be because there is."

"I don't need a wardrobe, Mycroft. My clothing is comfortable and in perfectly good condition. Even if it wasn't, I am capable of buying my own."

"Then you can consider this an apology for my behavior the other night."

"I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate it more if you apologized to him instead of me. I do not need more clothing." He ignored Sherlock snorting in the background.

"No, what you need is appropriate clothes. The clothing has already been paid for. Think of it this way: a designer wardrobe garners respect and you won't embarrass Sherlock when you're out with him. Also, if you refuse the clothing now how will you convince Sherlock to stay and get measured?"

"My clothes fit me!"

"No, they do not. But that is besides the point. You need an appropriate wardrobe and so does Sherlock. I'm sure that Sherlock has already commented that he detests your clothes or something similar. You need better clothing and I'm taking care of numerous matters. If you don't like the clothing you don't have to wear it. Good day, John."

John hung up and moved toward the back, pulling Sherlock with him. "Let's get this over with."

Sherlock scowled then opened his mouth and John held up a hand, "No. If I can be a good sport about this, so can you."

"According to your facial expression, you are not pleased to be getting a new wardrobe either. That you're acquiescing says that Mycroft won your argument. You are not being a good sport."

"I don't care. I'm doing this with significantly more grace than you." John started taking off his clothes, "I know you're stalling because you don't want new clothes, it's not going to work. You're still going to need clothes that fit you. Besides, I'm sure you don't want to stay in my sweater much longer. Strip."

"You say that a lot to me. Shouldn't you wait till we're at home by ourselves?"

"Sherlock! Take off your clothes!"

A/N: I was going to put a lime in the chapter before I decided that the chapter was getting overly long and that it would be better placed elsewhere. I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. Please review.


	9. A New Connection

Disclaimer: So, Sherlock isn't mine but this fic and their perspectives are.

Chapter 9- A New Connection

_**Greg Lestrade**_

Contrary to popular opinion– Sherlock's, that twat– Lestrade was not stupid. He was a Detective Inspector and one didn't get to be in his position without being observant. So when Sherlock walked in wearing John's sweater, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the pair had gotten closer. And he wasn't the only one that noticed. The entire force had made bets on the two: if they were together, when they had gotten together, how long they'd stay together, who was on top, who the consulting detective would piss off next. For someone that had a disposition to making enemies with his obnoxious bluntness, Sherlock was pretty popular– hence the bets. Everyone couldn't wait to see what crazy things the consulting detective would do next.

So Sherlock and John were probably fucking. That wasn't particularly surprising. The two had so much unresolved sexual tension that you could cut it with a finger, no sharp objects necessary. What _was_ surprising was the stare down that had taken place in his office at precisely one thirty on Sunday. He watched as John entered his office – no knock, Sherlock must have been rubbing off on him, not literally of course because imaging that was kind of not the image he wanted in mind – and stared at Sherlock before placing a paper bag on the table. He had never seen Sherlock flinch before. Not even when he was threatening to find and take away his drugs.

John had said four words, "It's time to eat."

Sherlock stiffened and leveled an impressive glare in the doctor's direction. "No."

"You will if I have to force feed you. You can do it with dignity and of your own violation, which will result in me leaving you alone about it, or the D.I can be privy to your humiliation."

Hurt flashed across Sherlock's face for an instant before it went blank. Lestrade found himself surprised again. Sherlock had always said that he was a sociopath, correction: a highly functional sociopath, so he hadn't expected to see him feel the emotions the genius thought were a waste of time.

John must have saw it too because he slouched and the look on his face softened from 'I am going to shoot you in a very painful place' to 'dammit'. The blonde sighed, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Please just eat the sandwich," he turned toward Greg, "Can you give us a moment?"

Lestrade nodded and made his way out of the office. He closed the door in time to hear John say, "Don't think I didn't notice that you didn't finish half of the lunch yesterday. You _are_ going to eat all of this. It's a vegetarian sandwich and it's low in…"

Greg leaned against his office while he waited for John to motion him back in. He had once thought that Sherlock would be the one on top– he was too high maintenance and demanding not to be – but he now revised that opinion.

It took a lot of patience and coercion to get Sherlock to do whatever you wanted him to but John seemed to do it with little trouble. Lestrade could barely get him to listen half the time and Sherlock _wanted_ the cases he gave him.

It made him wonder who was the more dangerous of the two: the smiling one that no one noticed, or the one who could look at you and tell you all your secrets. And what did that make the pair of them together? Something niggled at the back of his mind, something Sherlock said about the dead cabbie in The Study in Pink. Yes, he read John's blog, the entire Yard did; it was really quite amusing and informative. This– he didn't get paid enough for this so he'd be leaving it alone. He watched the couple through the glass as they kissed. Quite a few bets would be confirmed today and half the office would be making a bit of money. That reminded him, he needed to put a bet on John being the one who topped.

He would also need to listen to the recordings in his office after. Really, the two should have known better than to talk in there. The entire building had surveillance. Sherlock wasn't the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve.

But overall, he silently congratulated them. Even if he didn't win the bets, they were good for each other. They balanced each other out a bit. And really, it was about bloody time. They should have gotten together years ago. Seemed like John had done something about that too.

-/-/-/

_**Mycroft Holmes**_

Mycroft hung up the phone and smiled. It had been a good day and John was so much easier to convince than world leaders– if they just listened the first time he suggested something, they'd see he was right.

Mycroft was aware of Sherlock and John's new status as a couple and wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But he did like John. The doctor was loyal; the amount of money Mycroft had offered him to disappear when he had first met Sherlock was no small thing. The amount of money he had offered John to spy was even more. The doctor had nothing to his name except an army pension– peanuts really, he couldn't even get a bespoke suit with the amount he would have accumulated in months– and a few badges and honours that were completely useless, you could strike harder if people didn't see you coming. And yet the doctor still refused.

Yes, John was unfailingly loyal to Sherlock. The doctor always had been. John acquiesced to Sherlock with grace and competence. Mycroft could use a few more people like that. John was willing to kill for Sherlock and _had_ killed for him– he was really quite wasted in his profession.

The only thing John wasn't able to do was proper research and make a good cup of tea. The research was forgivable, John had had gotten better and he really couldn't hold him to the standards of his and Sherlock's intelligence. The tea, not so much– John was British, he really should know how since it was the unofficial national drink. Mycroft would have to do something about that, perhaps introduce him to higher quality tea leaves, proper brewing techniques?

So, he liked John. Maybe he thought he was a bit too brave sometimes– just another word for stupidity, really– but he did respect that he didn't back down. He could also handle Sherlock; few people really knew how to handle Sherlock. Even the drug dealers that had humiliated Sherlock when he no longer had the money for the drugs couldn't handle him; the ones that had raped him and made him do things for their amusement. Mycroft had taken care of them personally. He hadn't killed them, a fact that he wasn't completely satisfied with, but intimidation and a constant reminder of his presence did go a long way. After grievously injuring them, of course.

Perhaps he should send John their way. The doctor would be encountering another one of Sherlock's issues soon and when he found out what/why it was he would be very angry. Mycroft also wanted to see what the blonde would do. He constantly wondered why he didn't offer John a job; he had so much potential that he'd be brilliant if trained right– that meant by Mycroft himself. Oh yes, Sherlock would be the reason why. His younger brother tended to throw tantrums whenever someone encroached on his time with John. Mycroft did not keep regular hours because the world did not keep normal hours and it was always better to be twelve steps ahead, so if he hired John, Sherlock would never see him. Mycroft did not believe in wasting the talents of his people since they were the best and John was, or could be if he trained him, very talented.

Sherlock was so possessive that it had been surprising that John had been the one to make the first move. When he had first had a talk with John, he hadn't been expecting his words to become so literal. John loved Sherlock and Sherlock needed John. That made things very serious between the two. John didn't know just how much Sherlock needed him, he thought he did but he didn't have a clue. Mycroft knew because he knew his brother very well, addictive personality and all. Sherlock was not willing to give up his bad habits, _all_ of them, for just anyone. Thus far nobody but John had managed to get him off the drugs, not for long. If wedding bells were around the corner for the two then their family needed to be informed and wouldn't _that_ meeting be interesting.

What concerned him was that John knew how to handle Sherlock. Sherlock did not know how to handle John. Most of the control in their relationship laid in John's hands and while that was sort of fair– for the entirety of their relationship before, John had been Sherlock's bitch– Sherlock was his brother. He was obliged to make sure that Sherlock didn't get hurt. And if this thing with John didn't work out, hurt was the least of his worries. Sherlock would self-destruct so hard that he would probably have to have him on twenty-four hour watch on the highest security clearance. He had no doubt that Sherlock would turn back to drugs and do something foolish like overdose. In the worst-case scenario he would have to have his younger brother committed.

The trade off of possible happiness was not worth _that_. He should probably stop this relationship now while they weren't too dependent on each other because most relationships did not work. Look at Mummy and Father, Father was dead and Mummy was mad. He could mitigate the worst of it if he ended things now. He just… couldn't do it. He did love his younger brother even if Sherlock was overly dramatic and thought he was The Enemy. Enemies did not clean up their younger brother's messes. He would observe and see what happened. If things started to turn sour, he would step in. John would get a job, whether he wanted one or not, and Sherlock would never see the medic again. After a while his brother would get over it. He had gotten over The Woman– thank God he hadn't fallen in love with her, Irene Adler was a complication that the Holmes family did not need– and even though it wasn't the same thing it was the closest example, so he would get over John Watson too.

Mycroft would leave the situation alone for now. He wanted his brother to be happy if he could. He expected him to mess up but this was one case where he hoped he wasn't right. That reminded him, he did need to upgrade the couple's security status.

-/-/-/

_**Mrs. Hudson**_

Mrs. Hudson went up the stairs to 221B with a plate of biscuits in her hands. Sherlock loved them so she brought them up whenever she baked them. John had also told her about the Sherlock thinking he was fat situation after Sherlock had threw the dinner she had brought against the wall so she figured this would help. These biscuits were the only thing he always ate.

She braced herself for the mess she would face when she opened the door. They were always so messy that she found herself tidying things up a bit when she stepped into their apartment. She was constantly reminding them that she was their _landlady_ not their housekeeper and they were always disregarding that.

She was just about to open the door when she heard it. A moan. Both her eyebrows rose.

"John," the sound was long and drawn out.

Mrs. Hudson stopped.

"You. Are. Sexy. Show me, where is it that your fat? Is it here? Here? Your arse? Because it's fucking gorgeous; you have a perfectly proportioned, tight, bubble butt. I could just bite it. Show me Sherlock." John was growling.

She nearly dropped the biscuits. Oh my. She didn't know John had it in him. She always had an idea that he wasn't nearly as placid as he seemed– the first time she met him with the leg had given her a clue, but _this_. She flushed as she heard a high-pitched moan end in nearly a scream and set the platter down outside the door before hurrying down the stairs. Ah, young love. She remembered when she and her husband were like that. Though really, she didn't think Sherlock's voice could go that high.

Thirty minutes later, ensconced in her apartment, Mrs. Hudson decided that she needed to get herself a pair of earplugs. The boys had gotten louder and she could now hear muffled moans and sharp cries even in her room. She would need to mention to John that they'd have to do something about the noise; she didn't think Sherlock would take it well if she brought up the subject to him.

She always knew that they were together; she did wonder how she hadn't noticed the noise before now though. Perhaps Sherlock banned sex during cases– it seemed like something he'd do, or kept it to when she was gone? When she had initially assumed they were together– you weren't that close and Sherlock didn't show consideration for anybody, much less offer to clean up, if there wasn't something going on– John had denied it and said that they'd need two rooms. She had let it go but she knew all sorts and made sure to let them know she wouldn't have minded. It was up to them if they didn't want to tell anyone else.

Sherlock deserved to be happy. People really didn't realize what a dear he was. He was constantly putting himself in danger to help other people and solve cases. Sure, his way of doing it was… unorthodox but he still got the job done. Her husband had been a very bad man; a bad man with connections, and Sherlock had still helped her when no one else would. Not only had Sherlock helped, at risk to himself, he had succeeded and now she no longer had to worry about criminals dropping by in the middle of the night– at least not because of her husband. She owed Sherlock a great deal and would help him out in anyway she could including, but not limited to, giving him a deal on his apartment and hiding things for him if it wasn't drugs.

So she was happy that he had found John. John was everything Sherlock wasn't but they were a good match, most likely _because_ of that. John smoothed Sherlock's rough edges and Sherlock was more stable with John while seeming to give him something that he needed. Together the two were nearly unstoppable and she pitied the person or people that tried to get in their way. Not a lot of people had the bond that Sherlock and John had and she would do her utmost to make sure they stayed together. Sherlock wasn't the only one with connections.

It had been silent for a little while so she'd go see if they were finished. Perhaps they'd be hungry after that workout, and dinner was done.

Another moan sounded through the silence and Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. Maybe not. She'd leave it in the oven and bring it up later. Though a part of her did wonder at their stamina. It wasn't good to be repressed, after all.

-/-/-/

_**Molly Hooper**_

Molly looked up as Sherlock walked in and froze. He was wearing… a cashmere sweater? She'd never seen Sherlock in a sweater. It was always those _tight_, fitted shirts and trousers (that fitted his form so well they were practically like second skin). And she'd know. She always had time to watch Sherlock. Um, she meant that he was sexy. No! That she liked to observe him because he was brilliant. Yeah, that's what she meant. She sighed and found herself straightening up and playing with her hair when Sherlock looked at her. Who was she trying to kid? She liked him so much that if she liked him anymore she'd be in love with him.

"Um, hi, Sherlock. You're wearing a sweater. It's nice."

The dark head nodded, "Yes, it's John's."

Molly's eyebrows furrowed. John's? Could it be…? Did that mean…? Only lovers wore each other's clothing. No. She'd know if they were together. John had said it himself that they weren't and Sherlock had never denied it. Sherlock liked telling everyone they were wrong. She'd know, yeah she'd know. And she'd never seen John in a sweater like this; he tended to wear thick jumpers, this one was nice.

"Would you? Would you like a coffee, with me?"

"Black, two sugars. Any new bodies for me, Molly?"

"There are a couple. One's cause of death is unknown– we're waiting for the autopsy report. The other is a murder."

"I'll see the murder."

"Alright. But, why are you wearing John's sweater?"

"I like this one more."

"Oh." She went to prepare the coffee. Sherlock was puzzling at best sometimes. What did him liking that sweater more mean? Did that mean he constantly wore John's clothes? No, that couldn't be right. Molly made sure that she saw Sherlock often, she would have noticed the sudden appearance of jumpers. When it came to John, Sherlock seemed to have no concept of personal space. He took his cellphone, his laptop, and now apparently his sweaters.

Molly added two sugar cubes to the black coffee and started back towards Sherlock. She was concerning herself over nothing. It was fine. Sherlock was _not_ gay. She'd label him asexual but that wasn't quite right either. He showed interest in people. There was that horrific woman that had hurt Sherlock and put that obnoxious moaning as his ringtone. And he _had_ kissed her that Christmas. There was no way Sherlock was gay, and John wasn't either. John dated lots of females. Everything was _fine_. John wasn't snatching Sherlock from under her nose, at least not purposely.

The doctor was nice, but like her. He probably was convenient to Sherlock but not very interesting. But most importantly the doctor was heterosexual. She was overreacting. She really just needed to calm down, take a deep breath, and give Sherlock his coffee. It wasn't difficult – she'd be fine. And maybe one day she'd get the courage to ask Sherlock out properly.

It was only as Sherlock was leaving that she got the courage to ask again. "Sherlock, you didn't answer my question before. _Why_ are you wearing John's sweater?"

The genius looked over his shoulder at her from the doorway, "I've been told that's what lovers do. Afternoon." The detective was gone with a whoosh of his trench coat. He really shouldn't be allowed to wear that trench, it was completely distracting, him swooshing about. What had he said?

Fuck. She _knew_ it. God damn it all. She'd never had a hope, had she? Molly bit her lip. She should have known. No one spent that much time, or felt that much concern, or didn't care about personal space unless they wanted to shag the other person or were related. She should have known.

Molly put both their cups in the sink and straightened her back. It was time to move on, she always knew in the back of her mind that Sherlock was unattainable. It was time to start chasing something real, maybe someone who would like her back.

"Sherlock," she murmured, "why do you have to be so mean all the time? You knew."

A/N: I nearly didn't post this today. PLEASE REVIEW.


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